every twenty-five years--at the coming of every new and wiser
generation.

One of the most generous of the dead is Daudet, who, with a
prodigality approaching magnificence, gave himself up to us without

reserve in his work, with all his qualities and all his faults.
Neither his qualities nor his faults were great, though they were

by no means imperceptible. It is only his generosity that is out
of the common. What strikes one most in his work is the

disinterestedness of the toiler. With more talent than many bigger
men, he did not preach about himself, he did not attempt to

persuade mankind into a belief of his own greatness. He never
posed as a scientist or as a seer, not even as a prophet; and he

neglected his interests to the point of never propounding a theory
for the purpose of giving a tremendoussignificance to his art,

alone of all things, in a world that, by some strange oversight,
has not been supplied with an obvious meaning. Neither did he

affect a passive attitude before the spectacle of life, an attitude
which in gods--and in a rare mortal here and there--may appear

godlike, but assumed by some men, causes one, very unwillingly, to
think of the melancholy quietude of an ape. He was not the

wearisome expounder of this or that theory, here to-day and spurned
to-morrow. He was not a great artist, he was not an artist at all,

if you like--but he was Alphonse Daudet, a man as naively clear,
honest, and vibrating as the sunshine of his native land; that

regrettably undiscriminating sunshine which matures grapes and
pumpkins alike, and cannot, of course, obtain the commendation of

the very select who look at life from under a parasol.
Naturally, being a man from the South, he had a rather outspoken

belief in himself, but his small distinction, worth many a greater,
was in not being in bondage to some vanishing creed. He was a

worker who could not compel the admiration of the few, but who
deserved the affection of the many; and he may be spoken of with

tenderness and regret, for he is not immortal--he is only dead.
During his life the simple man whose business it ought to have been

to climb, in the name of Art, some elevation or other, was content
to remain below, on the plain, amongst his creations, and take an

eager part in those disasters, weaknesses, and joys which are
tragic enough in their droll way, but are by no means so momentous

and profound as some writers--probably for the sake of Art--would
like to make us believe. There is, when one thinks of it, a

considerable want of candour in the august view of life. Without
doubt a cautious reticence on the subject, or even a delicately

false suggestion thrown out in that direction is, in a way,
praiseworthy, since it helps to uphold the dignity of man--a matter

of great importance, as anyone can see; still one cannot help
feeling that a certain amount of sincerity would not be wholly

blamable. To state, then, with studiedmoderation a belief that in
unfortunate moments of lucidity is irresistibly borne in upon most

of us--the blind agitation caused mostly by hunger and complicated
by love and ferocity does not deserve either by its beauty, or its

morality, or its possible results, the artistic fuss made over it.
It may be consoling--for human folly is very BIZARRE--but it is

scarcely honest to shout at those who struggle drowning in an
insignificant pool: You are indeed admirable and great to be the

victims of such a profound, of such a terrible ocean!
And Daudet was honest; perhaps because he knew no better--but he

was very honest. If he saw only the surface of things it is for
the reason that most things have nothing but a surface. He did not

pretend--perhaps because he did not know how--he did not pretend to
see any depths in a life that is only a film of unsteady

appearances stretched over regions deep indeed, but which have
nothing to do with the half-truths, half-thoughts, and whole

illusions of existence. The road to these distant regions does not
lie through the domain of Art or the domain of Science where well-

known voices quarrel noisily in a misty emptiness; it is a path of
toilsome silence upon which travel men simple and unknown, with

closed lips, or, maybe, whispering their pain softly--only to
themselves.

But Daudet did not whisper; he spoke loudly, with animation, with a
clear felicity of tone--as a bird sings. He saw life around him

with extremeclearness, and he felt it as it is--thinner than air
and more elusive than a flash of lightning. He hastened to offer

it his compassion, his indignation, his wonder, his sympathy,
without giving a moment of thought to the momentous issues that are

supposed to lurk in the logic of such sentiments. He tolerated the
little foibles, the small ruffianisms, the grave mistakes; the only

thing he distinctly would not forgive was hardness of heart. This
unpractical attitude would have been fatal to a better man, but his

readers have forgiven him. Withal he is chivalrous to exiled
queens and deformed sempstresses, he is pityingly tender to broken-

down actors, to ruined gentlemen, to stupid Academicians; he is
glad of the joys of the commonplace people in a commonplace way--

and he never makes a secret of all this. No, the man was not an
artist. What if his creations are illumined by the sunshine of his

temperament so vividly that they stand before us infinitely more
real than the dingy illusions surrounding our everydayexistence?

The misguided man is for ever pottering amongst them, lifting up
his voice, dotting his i's in the wrong places. He takes Tartarin

by the arm, he does not conceal his interest in the Nabob's
cheques, his sympathy for an honest Academician PLUS BETE QUE

NATURE, his hate for an architect PLUS MAUVAIS QUE LA GALE; he is
in the thick of it all. He feels with the Duc de Mora and with

Felicia Ruys--and he lets you see it. He does not sit on a
pedestal in the hieratic and imbecile pose of some cheap god whose

greatness consists in being too stupid to care. He cares immensely
for his Nabobs, his kings, his book-keepers, his Colettes, and his

Saphos. He vibrates together with his universe, and with
lamentable simplicity follows M. de Montpavon on that last walk

along the Boulevards.
"Monsieur de Montpavon marche e la mort," and the creator of that

unlucky GENTILHOMME follows with stealthy footsteps, with wide
eyes, with an impressively pointing finger. And who wouldn't look?

But it is hard; it is sometimes very hard to forgive him the dotted
i's, the pointing finger, this making plain of obvious mysteries.

"Monsieur de Montpavon marche e la mort," and presently, on the
crowded pavement, takes off his hat with punctilious courtesy to

the doctor's wife, who, elegant and unhappy, is bound on the same
pilgrimage. This is too much! We feel we cannot forgive him such

meetings, the constantwhisper of his presence. We feel we cannot,
till suddenly the very NAIVETE of it all touches us with the

revealed suggestion of a truth. Then we see that the man is not
false; all this is done in transparent good faith. The man is not

melodramatic; he is only picturesque. He may not be an artist, but
he comes as near the truth as some of the greatest. His creations

are seen; you can look into their very eyes, and these are as
thoughtless as the eyes of any wise generation that has in its

hands the fame of writers. Yes, they are SEEN, and the man who is
not an artist is seen also commiserating, indignant, joyous, human

and alive in their very midst. Inevitably they MARCHENT E LA MORT-
-and they are very near the truth of our common destiny: their

fate is poignant, it is intensely interesting, and of not the
slightest consequence.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT--1904 {1}
To introduce Maupassant to English readers with apologetic

explanations as though his art were recondite and the tendency of
his work immoral would be a gratuitous impertinence.

Maupassant's conception of his art is such as one would expect from
a practical and resolute mind; but in the consummatesimplicity of

his technique it ceases to be perceptible. This is one of its
greatest qualities, and like all the great virtues it is based

primarily on self-denial.
To pronounce a judgment upon the general tendency of an author is a

difficult task. One could not depend upon reason alone, nor yet
trust solely to one's emotions. Used together, they would in many

cases traverse each other, because emotions have their own
unanswerable logic. Our capacity for emotion is limited, and the

field of our intelligence is restricted. Responsiveness to every
feeling, combined with the penetration of every intellectual

subterfuge, would end, not in judgment, but in universal
absolution. TOUT COMPRENDRE C'EST TOUT PARDONNER. And in this

benevolent neutrality towards the warring errors of human nature
all light would go out from art and from life.

We are at liberty then to quarrel with Maupassant's attitude
towards our world in which, like the rest of us, he has that share

which his senses are able to give him. But we need not quarrel
with him violently. If our feelings (which are tender) happen to

be hurt because his talent is not exercised for the praise and
consolation of mankind, our intelligence (which is great) should

let us see that he is a very splendid sinner, like all those who in
this valley of compromises err by over-devotion to the truth that